It’s been snowing all week in Dublin. The city has melted most of it, but I knew there’d probably still be snow on the mountains. AA Roadwatch confirmed that even getting to the mountains would be dangerous: icy road conditions for all of County Wicklow, with a particular warning to stay away from Sally and Wicklow Gaps.
But it’s the weekend, and the sky is blue, and the wind is calm. I couldn’t resist but to see if I could get a mountain run in.
I arrived in Glendalough, snow piled high on the roadsides. Even the shy mountain goats had come off Derrybawn and were foraging for food on the main tourist trails.
Camaderry was wrapped in a white blanket. Foolishly, I tried to head on up it regardless, only to find the snow melting underneath the trees. The snow would slip, and with it the boggy ground underneath. With wet-pants on, I knew falling would mean sliding straight to the bottom at speed, something my life and limbs weren’t prepared to risk. (Maybe I should have read how to run on snow before heading).
I crawled back down to the forest’s edge, and decided instead to follow the lakeside up to the miners track. It mightn’t have been the fastest of runs, but it definitely was one of the most idyllic. I ran as far up the track as I could, before sinking foot-deep snow made running impossible. I turned around and saw Glendalough valley in all its winter beauty.
And then I remembered why I don’t just run. Rather, I mountain run. How could tarmac or city parks even try to compete with this mountainous, glorious terrain?